Celebrate Life
by Pyromaniac - kinda
Summary: Peter/Stiles; hurt/comfort. Peter just woke up from the grave, ready and eager to live a little - but when he sees Stile's pain, it can only remind him of how badly he actually hurts. (this is the whole story behind the poem I wrote for this pairing, but this story came from a depressing place in my head.) Again, be warned: Lots of sadness.


**Celebrate Life**

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**Peter/Stiles; hurt/comfort. Peter just woke up from the grave, ready and eager to live a little - but when he sees Stile's pain, it can only remind him of how badly he actually hurts. **

**So yeah, this is the original story behind the "I heard there was a party...I invited myself", but the mood is obviously quite different. I just thought these characters needed to vent. So I tried to hit that "emotional high-point" that would break Peter and Stiles down, into normal human fragile souls. Death of a loved one does that, and more.**

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"_You killed your mother. And now you're killing me." _

He swallowed his sorrow back then, cause there was no time, shit was going on around him, and it was that crap they all drank, they all went ballistic and so stuff occurred that wasn't real, and neither was this. His father did NOT blame him for mom's-

Oh god, he could picture it, he can't stop picturing it. His mom was unearthly pale, blending with the white hospital room. For the first time, he felt sick with dread and only then did he comprehend the whole situation.

"_Your mom is very ill, son. She needs our support and love more than ever. You know how she reads to you every time when you get sick? How she's there all the time, checking up on you? Well, we need to do that, son, we need to make her feel safe. Need to make her better." _That's when his father's voice broke the day his mom got sick, and so Stiles tried his best to cheer mom up. He would make her soup, like she did with him, but his mother always said she wasn't hungry. He thought she didn't like it. Dad said she was too tired to eat or get out of bed and he fed her spoonfuls himself, but even so, Stiles stopped making her soup anyway. He also stopped telling her about his day, about all the daily adventures with Scott, how they found a kitten and made it a home with old rags, but it never slept there.. All these stories he now told his father instead of her. "You know, your mom would love to hear about this. Go in there, she's awake now." But she'll fall asleep halfway through it, he thought then, so he walked past her bedroom door and into his room.

He broke her heart every time she heard him walk past her door, he knew that now. He barely saw her that whole month, until she was rushed to the hospital one night. So later, when he entered the hospital room alongside his dad, fear and guilt cut so deep into him, he feels the sting to this very day.

He didn't make her feel safe, and he _didn't make her better_.

And so now she is pale, now she is motionless and cold when he touched her hand.

"Dad, she's cold."

His father looked stricken with horror for a few seconds, and when his mother moaned in her feverish sleep, he sighed shakily and then yelled at him "Don't say stuff like that Stiles! She is not cold!"He didn't understand it back then, didn't know why he made his father cry, but he clutched at his sobbing father's leg and kept telling him he was sorry and that he didn't mean it.

Even though Stiles wasn't sure if she could hear him, he apologized to his mom as well. He was sorry that he didn't make her soup every day, and that he didn't read her bedtime stories, or check up on her…Because now she was in a hospital, where only very sick people go. And it was all his fault, because he didn't make her better.

Soon after, his mother passed away.

Today he understands. She had a terminal illness. She was weak and needed rest. He wasn't boring her with his stories, and she didn't hate his soup. She simply couldn't get out of bed and play with him, or make it to his first day of school and she never stopped loving him.

And he couldn't have made her better.

But the guilt wormed its way deep on that day, he couldn't stress it enough to himself that it was not his fault. He didn't kill his mother. It was the illness.

"_You killed your mother."_

The tears still fell.

He couldn't face his father on his way to his room, he just murmured some reply about being tired and crashing early.

Dad would never blame him, of course he wouldn't. He loves him, and shows him that every day with encouraging words and loving eyes that look past every screw-up he made daily.

Oh god. He got his dad fired and he still loves him.

Is he breaking his father's heart as well? Breaking it until he is pale and motionless and cold?

"_You killed your mother. And now you're killing me."_

"I'll be sure to apologize afterwards.", with bitter grief he spoke to the empty room that echoed the shattering sound of his voice. And then he broke down.

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"Ahhhh."

Sure, he had to blow all the dirt from his nostrils, but it was worth it. He missed the fresh air and all the faint smells it held – sweat, alcohol, arousal, adrenaline… panic? Oh this was one heck of a party. Hats off to you, Lydia. He was aware the refreshments might cause a mirage or two to appear, and it was all in good fun, just to make his dramatic entrance a bit more razzmatazz. But oh, the joke seemed to have gone too far… is that a police siren in the distance? God damn it, does he have to do EVERYTHING himself?!

And he was so looking forward to crashing this little party, seeing all their faces, especially the childlike incomprehension on that kid's face…Stiles, right. The Alfa's reappearance was going to render even his sharp little mind numb.

Yes, Stiles would have thought it was yet another hallucination. He would try to confront Peter, be bold, daring to challenge him with his fiery in his eyes- Ohhh how Peter loved that spark he saw back then. But the spark was too clouded with fear to turn into a real flame. But now… now that Peter was 'nothing more than an illusion', he would release his scorching temper. And then… Peter would slowly walk up to his prey, bring his dirt-soiled hand to the boy's soft face, and _touch_, trail down to his neck. All the while watching dozens of emotions change on the boy's face, until only acceptance remained. Submission to whatever act Peter decides on.

Originally he planned on gripping his windpipe shut, and watch the little shit thrash and twist for dear life. Sometimes, when he evoked the memory of blazing flames on his skin (FOR THE SECOND MOTHERFUCKING TIME!), he considered just ripping Stiles's throat out and clawing his fresh corpse until it's unrecognizable.

Maybe it's the fresh air, or the uncultivated force of _life _coursing through him_, _but his previously clotting motionless blood was now running hot with desire - he could only envision wrapping his fingers around that pale neck and guiding the boy's lips to his. Kiss, bite, take and mark those lips until all stages of Stiles' denial halt and he moans against Peter's mouth, both of them drowning in ecstasy.

Fuuuuck he missed being alive. The only hitch in his little plan: there was no tripped up party to crash anymore. The police cruisers were already taking off from the scene, distressed teens already paired up for their walk home.

Still, a little setback wasn't something he couldn't handle. Now he just had to pinpoint his sent… The dirt in his nostrils ain't helping the job, though.

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He did, finally. The smell grew thicker when he neared the sheriff's house. He climbed up the window, the scent of youthful skin drove him mad, but then he caught a whiff of salt in the air.

Aw, shit.

Stiles' shivering form stood out in the dark, he was slant over the desk shuddering, whispering softly something that even Peter barely caught. He did, though.

"Atta way to ruin my fun." Peter murmured but stepped over to the delirious boy.

Because what he heard was a litany of self-condemnatory and guilt ridden apologies to, apparently no one – and Peter cringed at the sight. Really, this wasn't at all what he was what he was hoping for out of this night. Damn teenage depression, it gets them hormonal like a 7 month pregos.

"Aww. Your dad lectured you about a C-?"

Nothing. REALLY? Did his resurrection not quite work properly, cause he really felt like a ghost at this point. So he pulled the kid by the arm.

"Cat got your tongue boy!? You did use to yap a bit too much, but this is fucking ridicul-"

No light of recognition on Stiles' face couldn't help but shock him. The boy's eyes were deadened, hollow when he stared through, unaware of Peter's presence inches from him.

"Stiles." he tried.

"I'm sorry. It's all my fault, you're gone, died because of me. I'm sorry…"

Peter gaped. He couldn't believe it. This boy _cared_ that Peter died. His own nephew that he helped raise into a young man was revolted by his uncle's return from the grave. Yet this kid was crying his heart and soul out. For **him**. An alleged monster, a heartless deviant.

It struck him how ludicrous this was - it even tugged a smile from him. "God, are you hung up on THAT? I am flattered-"

"…miss you so much, mom..."

Something cracked inside of him. Flashes of his past, images of his late family members and the life he used to share with them appeared in front of him. He could hear them – not their dying screams before their scorching demise that he recalls just before he falls asleep – no, it was their laughter he heard. The feeling of warmth on his skin was not the unforgiving burn of fire, but the radiance of their bodies when they hugged him.

He was hugged, he was loved, he was cared for, he belonged. Long ago, but the memory was so vivid now. He could actually remember who he was. Who he is, really. It was all gone now, those people weren't here and though it was so, so **unspeakably** _unfair, _thoughts of futile vengeance were waft away and he only saw the tragedy of it all.

He wanted to ask Stiles about his mother, and he wanted to talk about his family as well. But the boy was too far gone right now, and he felt it would probably hurt too much to say it all out loud, himself. He would give himself a break; it was only his first day alive again.

But what he did was hug the boy close. Envelop him like he once did them. He missed them.

This is how Peter celebrated his first night out of the grave. Not with loud pulsating life, but with quiet remorse of the final loss…yet he felt more alive than ever.

In the silence of the room, even the hammering heartbeat settled down at some point, as Stiles was lulled to sleep in what he thought was his mother's forgiving embrace.

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**I never wrote a real story before, it's quite fun, I see why you guys do it so much... Wow - I feel *enlightened*! I _think_ I just discovered the purpose of FanFiction :O ! So, anyway please review, it'd be awfully nice of you. Thank you for reading!****  
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